Chapter 1

On my birthday, I married Damien Thorne, a billionaire thirteen years my senior.

"Why did you marry me?" I once asked.

His eyes would soften as he pulled me close, like I was something fragile and rare.

"Because you're Eleanor."

My heart would begin to lift, but his next words froze my blood.

"Because you're the daughter of the woman who abandoned me ten years ago. Your mother owes me a debt. And you will repay it."

That sentence became a chain, locking me inside his marriage.

On our anniversary, he made me watch him making out with other women.

When I was hospitalized, weak and fevered, he rolled dice to decide how many spoonfuls of food I was allowed each day.

Finally, broken in body and spirit, I slid into a bathtub and opened my wrists.

As the world dimmed, I pushed out one last, ragged breath of a question.

"My mother died twelve years ago. So who was it you really loved ten years ago?"

Damien's answer never reached me. I died before the words could take shape.

But when I opened my eyes, I was ten years in the past.

The moment I woke, I saw Damien, young and desperate, being beaten by a pack of men over unpaid wages.

Without thinking, I lunged to shield him and took the blow meant for his chest. The impact stole my breath; blood rose in my throat and spilled from my lips.

His eyes widened in shock. He carried me straight to a hospital.

"My name is Damien Thorne. What's yours?"

I did not dare give my real name.

He chuckled. "Feisty little thing, aren't you?"

The casual nickname stung, sharp as a needle.

Instantly, I remembered his future secretary, Chloe, in his bed.

I snapped, a desperate lie ripping from my throat. "I'm not little! I'm older than you!"

But I had nothing. No ID, no proof.

I could not find Vicky, my future adoptive mother. I could not even call the police.

When he realized I had nowhere to go, he took me to his apartment.

The 25-year-old Damien, his eyes held none of the ruthless glint I knew from the future, only endless, pure tenderness.

"You can stay. It's old, but it's safe here."

He turned his face, a slight flush rising. "Don't worry about me. I have other places to stay."

He was lying.

I'd secretly followed him.

A man over six feet tall, curled up in a cramped storage room where he couldn't even stretch his legs.

Damien didn't push me to find a job, never once questioned my past.

He'd grown up in an orphanage, under the cold, disdainful gaze of others, becoming a solitary, guarded soul.

Before 25, he'd always licked his wounds in silence, alone, until I burst into his world.

For the first time, he tasted protection, a sensation utterly new.

My constant presence and reliance, my refusal to leave the house, made him feel desperately needed.

He thought this was love. He gave me everything he had.

He worked two grueling jobs to support me, accumulating more and more injuries, his frame growing alarmingly thin.

He broke a bone doing manual labor, skipped the hospital to save money, yet still managed to bring home flowers every single day.

The kinder he was to me, the deeper the thorn in my heart dug in, a constant, agonizing reminder.

I couldn't stop thinking about how cruelly he would treat me in the future.

The future's chilling cruelty and the present's overwhelming tenderness tore at my very soul, leaving me breathless, suffocating.

Days bled into weeks, and I still didn't know who he truly loved.

Until that day, when he found me, his face alight with excitement.

"I know your name!"

My heart lurched.

"My colleague saw your picture and said you were his old neighbor, the older girl who moved away years ago. He said you'd blossomed, almost didn't recognize you."

Someone here knew me?

He ruffled my hair. "So you really are older than me, huh? Sarah?"

Sarah.

That was my mother's name.

My name was Eleanor.

In that shattering instant, everything clicked into place.

I hadn't just gone back in time; I had become history. I was living out the past.

The person he fell in love with, the one he thought was my mother, was actually me-the time-traveling me.

So all the torment I endured, all the pain... what was it for?

This cruel, twisted joke of fate made bile rise in my throat, a wave of sickening disgust.

Hot, heavy tears streamed down, each one a hammer blow against my chest.

I fell ill for days, and he nursed me tirelessly, never leaving my side.

In a haze of fever, I felt him slip a ring into my hand.

"I saved for three years to get this."

"Sarah, when you got better, will you marry me?"

Yes.

But I couldn't wait.

An invisible force seized me and dragged me back through time.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the night I tried to kill myself.

This time, Damien wasn't beside me.

Blood choked my throat, burning as I gasped. I thrashed, desperate to claw my way out of the tub, but the door was locked, bolted from the outside.

Sounds came from beyond the door.

A sliver of hope ignited in me, then died as I heard Damien and a woman, their muffled moans and gasps echoing through the thin walls.

I was plunged back into that icy despair.

I remembered.

Last time, when I learned I was just a stand-in for my mother, every tender memory, every ounce of sweetness, turned to dust in my hands.

After the ninety-ninth time I found him with someone else, I demanded a divorce. He locked me up instead. Broken, I chose to end it all.

But now, knowing the truth, the bitterness wasn't cold ash-it was a raw, living wound, screaming to be spoken.

I couldn't die. I had to tell him the truth.

I screamed his name, the sound tearing my throat, as the darkness began to pull me under...

The door finally opened.

When I woke in the hospital, my eyes immediately found Damien.

I tried my best to ignore the fresh hickeys on his neck, desperate to speak.

But he grabbed me, his hand closing around my throat.

"You want to die? I told you, Eleanor. Until you repay what your mother stole from me, I'll make sure you crave death but can never reach it."

"If you want to hate, hate her-your mother, who stole my heart and my money, then just vanished."

The stark disgust in his eyes made my own burn, blurring with unshed tears.

He scoffed, a chilling sound. "What are you playing at? Don't think for a second that your resemblance to her will soften me."

I tried to speak, but no sound came out.

He sneered. "Who told you to try and take your own life? Enjoy being speechless now, do you?"

I'd choked on my own blood during the suicide attempt, screamed until my throat was raw and useless.

He leaned closer, his voice a cruel whisper.

"I knew you were throwing a little tantrum in the bathroom earlier. Too bad she was so... insistent. I couldn't resist. We went for another round."

I bit down hard on my lip, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth.

The memory of 25-year-old Damien's tenderness still lingered in my mind.

The harsh reality slapped me across the face, a brutal awakening.

Stubbornly, I reached for my phone, desperate to type out the truth, but Damien, impatient, just turned his back and walked away.

"Don't bother me with these dramatics again, Eleanor. Do it too often, and I'll get bored."